


Broken Orders

by pilotisms



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Clone Trooper Culture, Commander Nyx is a Bad Boy, F/M, Force Bond, Here we go, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Our Big Buff Grumpy Clone, Reader-Insert, i love my dumb kids
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-05
Updated: 2020-02-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:28:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 7,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22121830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pilotisms/pseuds/pilotisms
Summary: Commander Nyx, RC-1313, wasn’t quick to trust – after all, he’d heard things about the Jedi. There were plenty of stories floating around the mess about piss-poor assignments to Jedi Generals who treated his fellow soldiers like throw away holo-chess pieces. But, then he meets you. And a lot changes.A collection of semi-chronological drabbles.
Relationships: Original Clone Trooper Character(s)/Original Jedi Character(s), RC-1313 | Commander Nyx/Reader
Comments: 26
Kudos: 310





	1. first.

Commander Nyx, RC-1313, wasn’t quick to trust – after all, he’d _heard things_ about the Jedi. There were plenty of stories floating around the mess about piss-poor assignments to Jedi Generals who treated his fellow soldiers like throw away holo-chess pieces. 

Born out of the same training as Delta Squad, Nyx wasn’t _really_ expecting a Jedi assignment; if anything, the commando figured he’d be snatched up by Special Ops and join a squadron running mission’s out of sight and out of mind. In fact, he _preferred_ to think about that being his future – but, instead, here he is. 

Standing outside the Jedi Council on Platform 4A-II. 

Waiting.

The newly ranked Commander of Talon Squadron clears his throat, exhaling deeply as he shifts in his boots. He crosses his arms and promptly begins drumming his fingers. His HUD reads a time fifteen kliks later than anticipated. 

He sighs again. 

Behind him, the snickers of his squad-mates meet his ears. The black paint might still be wet on his armor’s pauldron, signifying his new rank, but that doesn’t stop the commando from shooting them a warning look, laced with stern leadership. 

Lucky – a wide-eyed cadet – chirps a quick. “Sorry, sir.”

Nyx wasn’t quick to trust. But, when the moment you finally arrive on that platform – swathed by Master Windu and Kenobi – Nyx throws that hesitancy right out the damn airlock. 

You’re chattering animatedly with both Jedi – you say something that makes General Kenobi laugh. The wry smile on your face that follows is like a square punch in the jaw. 

He wasn’t sure what he was expecting. But, a bright-eyed, young, newly-crowned Jedi Knight from Naboo wasn’t it. Not a beautiful woman with a kind face and soft voice. 

You could be royalty, he’s sure of it. 

He’s glad his helmet is on. He’s staring. Openly.

“Commander,” it’s General Windu who regards Nyx with a gesture of respect, “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

“No problem at all, sir.”

Nyx’s voice is tight.

“You must be Nyx,” you say slowly, stepping forward and quirking a brow, “Congratulations on your promotion.”

Suddenly, there’s a hand. Your hand. Just… jutted out. Nyx, for a moment, isn’t quite sure what to do – but the sudden realization that you’re treating him as an _equal_ slaps him into action. 

He shakes your hand and the force stammers your heart. 

For a moment, it’s just the two of you on that platform. 

And that’s the beginning of the end. 


	2. deployed.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the council is quick to throw you and talon squadron into the war effort.

It makes sense why they were quick to give you a squadron assignment. 

In the matter of a month, you’re knee deep in the mud and humidity of Felucia – the Outer Rim planet has become a fixture in the war; as a point along the Perlemian Trade Route, it’s control is imperative to moving the supply lines along the Outer Rim for the troopers stationed along the system. 

It’s day five on the main front. 

You are exhausted.

You haven’t stopped moving for more than an hour’s time and Nyx has noticed – it’s early in the morning by the time you trudge back from the Eastern ridge and collapse by the fire being tended to by Lucky and Stripes. Nyx returns from a debrief to find you staring blankly into the fire. The camp is alive but quiet, bustling with a handful of squadrons who move between meal and battle.

“… General?”

You blink. Quickly, you rub your eyes and sit up a little straighter.

You’re caked in mud and littered in bruises – in all honestly, you look worse for wear. You don’t need to see Nyx’s face to sense the worry radiating off of him as he squats in the mud by your side. The commando’s emotions roll off him like a stormy sea and you curse your sensitivity. 

He feels things intensely. Anger, worry, affection. Nyx lets those emotions swallow him whole and it’s _terribly distracting._

“How’re things at command?” you ask weakly, looking past him.

(There’s a bit of shame there, letting him see you like this. He’s been by your side for a month or so now; not once has he seen you so… far away.)

He sighs. His visor drops as he plays with a stray blade of purple grass between gloved hands. He ignores your question.

“Have you eaten?”

You frown.

Nyx looks up, then, and you feel a shift – he holds the stare for a second before sighing again and standing full height. 

It’s a moments time before he returns, having dug through his own damp and muddied pack, to offer an MRE. It’s nothing special, but he makes sure you begin to open it – urged by a stern bark of _eat_ – as he sits down next to you by the fire. 

“… Thank you.”

A small nod. He nudges his shoulder against yours. 


	3. fight night.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> nyx fights. just like the good ol' days. in response to the prompt: "nyx is soft."

And sometimes, he isn’t.

It’s the third week of fighting non-stop on the line when they finally receive word from command – time for some R&R. Talon Squadron is pulled back from the main front of conflict along with four other squadrons; they set up camp in a fungal field a mile South of the battle. 

The fauna glows blue and sea-foam green under the moonlight of Felucia.

The troopers, between scouting and rest, find other ways to mind the time. 

Nyx takes a hard hit to the jaw. He recoils, only to buckle at the waist and earn a swift kick to the ribs. His boots stumble in the mud. The bottom half of his armor is caked in it – his helmet and cuirass have been placed aside outside the ring of troopers jeering at the fight between Commandos. 

The clone trooper hisses. He swipes at his mouth, spits, and stands tall once more. In the light of the fires around the encampment, he looks meaner than usual – the tattoos painting his chest, neck and face mingle with the blood, sweat and mud. His hair, usually buzzed tight on the sides, has grown out a bit. Dark, inky strands hang in his face as he swipes at the blood gathering in the stubble along his chin. 

“C’mon, Cody,” he grits, flexing his arms as he bounds from foot to foot, “Hit me like you mean it.”

Cody’s no worse for wear. Both of the men – stubborn and tough – have started to wear themselves down. And the bets keep getting upped. 

You stumble across the spectacle on the outside of camp after breaking from a call with the Jedi Council; as you weave around the crowd, you can’t make out _who_ is fighting, but there’s a raucous up-roar when someone hits the ground hard. When you do finally get a good look?

It’s Nyx. 

On top of Cody. 

They’re grappling in the mud, both trying desperately to get the upper hand. 

It’s not until Nyx manages to pull a choke-hold, bare chest heaving, that prompts Cody to reluctantly tap out with a blue face. Nyx’s arm goes slack and Cody groans and then, two Commanders collapse backwards in exhaustion.

As the crowd begins to disperse – one lieutenant shouting: “Alright, show’s over! Noise and light restrictions are _tight tonight,_ boys!” – Nyx is slow to rise. His armor, hanging from his waist, is caked in mud. He ambles over to his discarded helmet and cuirass, only to find _you._

Your arms are crossed. You look… worried. 

Nyx sniffles, ignoring the taste of blood in the back of his throat, before bending over and snatching up his helmet. 

“Ma’am.”

You’ve never seen him like this – out of his armor and bloodied and… a mess. For the first time, you get a glimpse of the intricate tattoos decorating his chest and neck. They trail down his arms and ribs, painting his skin with Mando’a and various exotic predators. 

He’s… strong. Bulky. Broad shoulders and tall. 

He’s a _mess._

And you’re staring.

“Nyx…”

“I’m fine, ma’am,” he strains, groaning a bit as he hauls his armor up and lugs it over his shoulder, “Just a bit of friendly competition.”

“I hate it when you call me _ma’am,”_ you mumble, stepping a bit closer to eye the gash above his eye. His brow, already split from a scar, is bleeding still. Preoccupied, you miss the clear softening of his features as your fingers find his chin and tilt head so you can get a better look at the injury. You make a face. Then you speak softly, “Make sure you apply some bacta, please.”

Nyx is staring at you; you’re features look soft in the lit fires of the camp. The blues and greens of the bioluminescence paint you all sorts of beautiful. He blinks slowly. Then, clears his throat before nodding. 

“Yes, of course, ma’am –”

“What did I say about the _ma’am?”_

A tired laugh. “Right.”

You laugh a little, shaking your head as you begin to walk away. “I mean it about the bacta, Nyx.”

He’s smiling as he limps back to his tent. 


	4. diplomacy, of course.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> you and nyx talk about leave.

The fire light is soothing. 

The rhythmic crackle wards off the rushing thoughts trying desperately to worm their way into your head – with each wave, you breathe. For now, it’s just you and the warmth of the light, hunkered down for the time being. 

Nyx returns to the fire moment later, exhaling softly as he settles beside you.

“Has 201st Regiment made any progress?”

“None,” he grits, pulling off his helmet and placing it between the two of you, “None whatsoever.”

You exhale tightly.

“… I hate this planet.”

Nyx quirks a brow.

“How very un-Jedi of you,” he says lightly, voice curious, “Shouldn’t you _love_ all things?”

“It’s hot,” you rattle off tiredly, “and it smells. And almost everything on this planet is trying to kill us. If it’s not the clankers, it’s the fauna. If it’s not the fauna, it’s the _fungus.”_

Nyx chuckles. “Good to know Felucia isn’t a preferred vacation spot for you, General.” 

“No,” you laugh, crossing your arms, “Naboo, maybe, but not here.”

“… Is Naboo nice?”

You hum. “It’s beautiful.”

Nyx thinks you’re beautiful – like this, tired and half-lidded and swathed in your robes. You looks exhausted. Your lips part and you smile a bit at a memory, and then turn to eye him. 

“After all this,” you say, “We’ll go.”

“Yea?”

“On diplomacy, of course.”

“ _Of course.”_

A promise is a promise.


	5. hot water.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> you and the boys are pulled off the line for a bit. nyx takes advantage of your shower.

Nyx can’t remember the last time he showered.

Like, _really showered._

Not splashes from a cold water basin in his tent, not a wash from the down-pours on Felucia. This shower is _hot_ and long and he stands in it for nearly an hour before you finally hammer your fist on the door and beg for him to _hurry it up._

The ship, a Republic transport, is anticipated to be your home for a week or two – the small living quarters were to be _yours,_ but upon hearing that the general bunks for the troopers had limited running water…

Well, the entirety of Talon squadron, now happily showered and in clean civvies, is currently _lazing about_ in your living room. Lucky is flipping through the channels on the holonet, spurring his squad-mates to beg him to just _pick a kriffing channel already!_

Down the hall, you knock on the refresher door _again._

_“Nyx,”_ you groan, towel in hand, “I swear, if there’s no hot water by the time I get in there –”

“ _Alright, alright! I’m comin’! Relax_ ,” he calls out loudly, quickly snapping the water off and hauling himself from the shower, “Can’t a man shower in peace?”

His voice is muffled on the other side of the door.

“It’s been nearly an _hour,”_ you chirp, shaking your head in disbelief as Shade catches a glimpse of you. The sniper mimics your expression, shaking his head as well, “And it’s _my_ shower –”

“Quick whackin’ it, Nyx!” it’s Stripes. The others laugh.

“Our poor General has been _waiting_ ,” Lucky calls, not really paying attention, “She smells!”

“Lucky makes a good point. I _do_ smell.”

“Yes,” Nyx smirks, punching open the door, “You do.”

Steam rushes to hit your face and you recoil a bit, rolling your eyes as the Commander tightens his grip on the towel around his waist. His face is rosy, no doubt from the scalding hot water, and he makes a point to provide a wolfish grin as he takes up the entire doorway.

… The view is nice.

He then, rather purposefully, brushes by you and pads down the hallway; he’s whistling when he enters your bedroom, bundle of fresh civvies in hand. 

“Feelin’ good, sir?” calls out Lucky.

“ _Never better!”_


	6. swoon.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> you watch nyx over lunch in the mess.

They drill concentration in the academy. 

Patience and breathing, level-headed calm and soft focus. 

Right now, it doesn’t _matter_ that you’re missing your mouth with your fork. In fact, you couldn’t give _two kriffs –_ the only thing that really matters, in this moment and in the entire universe, is the absolutely _sinful look_ on your Commander’s face. 

After living off ration packs for two cycles now, eating a hot meal is…

Well, _sinful._

Lucky is laughing – mouthful of some random meat the mess has cooked up – but Nyx, in a rare show of lax, couldn’t care less. He just grips his fork a little tighter in tattooed knuckles and digs in.

You have to pry your eyes from his face and remember your place after a moment.

(It’s hard to do – Nyx is _handsome._ All of the boys are. But… Nyx is _Nyx_ and the roguish commander has the added appeal of being one of your closest compatriots. For kriff’s sake, you’d let the Commander sleep on the sofa in your living quarters last night after he’d lit up your communicator complaining about how Spades wouldn’t stop _yacking_ above him in his bunk from space-sickness.

Nyx had stumbled to your quarters, half awake and grouchier than usual, at the offer of your couch. With a soft expression, you’d wrapped your robe tighter around yourself and let him in. He’d squeezed your shoulder gently as he passed you in the hall, muttering a gentle, “Thank you.”

And while he snored away, you lay awake feeling nothing but the burn of his touch.) 

The scar along the curve of his jaw interrupts the dark beard that’s growing there. Beneath the stubble, the dark ink of the tattoos along his temple and jaw dance – he chews happily, lips quirking. His adam’s apple bobs and the intricate artwork along his neck distracts from his words. There are a few scars there, thanks to shrapnel and kick-back. 

There’s another – one you’ve grown fond of. It’s a long one that runs from his hairline to his brow. It splits his brow in half; he joked once that it was from being dropped as a freshie – in reality, it had been from an unauthorized fight back during his conditioning. He’d had his face smashed with the butt end of a training rifle.

You had no doubt he’d instigated it. He had a bad habit of doing so, even now.

The tattoos along the right side of his face add to the personality he’s built for himself – mean, rough, hardened. If anything, they attest to the Commander’s ability to withstand pain; and, perhaps, his love for the various predatory creatures found along the war’s campaign. 

(He’d joked, after watching you nearly get _eaten_ by an angry, mother Acklay back on Felucia, about getting the creature indoctrinated alongside the rather terrifying Nexu cat inked along his ribs. Part of you believes he’d still do it, if you hadn’t received a nasty bite from the hellish monster that landed you in the medbay and him sick with worry.)

His hair is a point of pride – despite it’s desperate want to _curl_ beneath his helmet, the long strands that flow above his tight undercut are usually swept back. Shade had gifted him a pot of gel from Coruscant after ripping on Nyx for his un-ruly helmet hair. It smelt like sandal wood. 

All in all, Nyx looks like the type of man you would steer far away from if you had any common sense. He’s a soldier. He’s dangerous. He’s hot-headed.

And he is hopelessly in love with you.

You’re staring at him and his muscles are on fire. The words he’d been speaking die in his mouth the moment he catches the jump of your eyes along his face – they’re roaming freely, and Nyx almost wonders if you’re _openly_ admiring _some_ part of him before your eyes catch his, just like gravity – he’s stuck, heart rooted in your orbit as you let the moment pass. 

You fork at your lunch.

Your appetite is gone.

(You wonder if this feeling, this terrible heat crawling under your skin, is the very thing you’d been warned about.)

They drill concentration in the academy. 

They’d also drilled no attachments. 


	7. snap.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the code is strangling you.

You haven’t been yourself.

It shows in the way you hold yourself – right now, opposite you in the sparring ring, Nyx can see the tension along your shoulders and arms. Your fingers flex, boots spread on the matt as you exhale. 

You look exhausted.

“Again.”

His eyes narrow and he rolls his shoulders. His hair has gone from being kept to unruly – the dark, sweat dampened curls hang in his eyes as he squares his stance off. Sans the upper pieces of his armor, a compression suit remains in its wake. 

“You sure?”

“ _Again,_ Nyx.”

And so you both go again, for the fourth time – it’s a frenzied match, met with a war-cry and hard blocks; you’re _ferocious,_ hands pummeling his ribs in a series of quick punches that sweep the wind from his lungs. Nyx, though, is bigger than you; in one move, with all his momentum, he’s managed to snag your wrist and spin you away. 

His opens himself up, and you swing your leg high and wide – but, he catches the strike, sending you hurtling to the ground as he follows. 

(You can’t focus. You’re _angry_ – angry at yourself for the feelings that keep rushing to the front of your mind; angry that with each _strike,_ none of those feelings seem to go away. No amount of meditating or sparring or _nightmares_ seem to quell the fire raging inside your gut at the mere _touch_ of your Commander.)

The second your back hits the mat, you sob.

Nyx, immediately, releases his hold and recoils with a terrified look – fearful, instantly, that he hurt you, he rushes to hover over you with tender hands.

“I’m so sorry – I’m –”

But, instead of a wince, you simply cover your face with your hands and _wail._

Nyx doesn’t know what to do. He has… _no idea_ – but his heart _shatters_ at the sound and his composure, _years_ of training on high-stress situations, is out the window. Quickly, he’s moving to cradle you – his arms are tight around your torso as you cling to him. Your chest quakes against his, face pressed tightly into the crook of his neck. With wide eyes, Nyx tries to catch his breath, but fear isn’t making it easy.

Something isn’t right.

“What did I do?” he asks softly, voice tender with worry, “Kriff, I’m _sorry –”_

You pull from him, eyes roaming his face with a broken look.

(You _feel_ it radiating off of him. You’ve felt _it_ for weeks now. He’s never been good at keeping his emotions to himself. You’re an empath – the force amplifies everything, sends it straight to the sinews of your heart and keeps you awake at night. While maybe anyone else could look past his dedicated affection, it makes you _sick_ knowing you want nothing more than to return those very feelings –)

“It’s not you.”

It’s a whisper.

Nyx knows that’s a lie.

“What did I do?” he says again, voice level, “Did I hurt you?”

“… You can’t love me, Nyx.”

Something cold passes between you both. Hurt, you realize.

He blinks forcefully, shaking his head. “I… I don’t –”

“I can’t –” you speak softly, voice hoarse, “I… I’ve _dreamed_ about it every night and –”

His heart splits open. You feel it. It aches. 

“I’m sorry.”

He leaves the room without another word.

And you _weep._


	8. shut up.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> code is broken.

You feel like a caged buzzard. 

This transport is starting to feel like hell.

For three days, you circle your room and pick the bones of your feelings bare – everyday, with gnawing teeth, you tear apart the lovely little thing blooming in your heart. And everyday, when you finally rise in the shambles of your quarters, that lovely little thing is back.

Warm, alive and rising like the tide.

Talon Squadron hears nothing from you in those days. Lucky upon asking an uncharacteristically far-off Nyx during drills where you were, received nothing but a dismissive, vague and tired explanation of:

“She’s tending to important matters, soldier.”

On the fourth night, there’s a knock at your door. 

You jump, eyes springing open – swathed in only your thin chemise and hair escaping from it’s usual intricate plaits, you eye the door over your shoulder for a moment. 

Time has started to melt away. You’ve been mediating for hours. Outside the large bay windows of the living room, space hums by. 

Then, three more terse knocks. 

You pad, barefoot, to the door. You know it’s him without even punching in the security clearance code. You can feel the usual, comforting lull of his presence through the force halfway down the hallway.

Just like that, the lovely little thing in your heart skips about, cozying up beside your ribs. 

It’s in that moment, as the door slides open and you see him for the first time in days, you finally settle on the fact you _do_ love him. 

You’ve loved him for months. 

Nyx tries not to get hung up on the way you look – your hair is spilling over your shoulders, nightgown hanging from your frame. Your eyes are tired, searching his face with a gentleness he isn’t quite used to. He blinks down at you once, swallows down the guilt of his love, then offers the datapad clutched in his hand. 

He’s glad he’s got his helmet on. He can barely stand to look you in the eyes.

“General,” Nyx greets tersely, clearing his throat, “For you.”

Your eyes bound across his visor, only then landing on the datapad. With a tentative hand, you reach for it. 

Weighing it in your hands, your eyes break from his rigid posture to scan the document glowing blue on the screen. 

_ REGIMENT TRANSFER SIGN-OFF.  _

“I’ve gone ahead and begun the process of applying for a transfer –”

You’re silent. Your eyes search the ground by his boots, datapad still raised in your hands. You worry your lip, only for a moment, before letting a measure exhale sweep through your lungs. 

Nyx shifts in his boots. “… General, I… I apologize – _truly_ – but I, I believed this would be the best course of action –”

“Shut up.”

Nyx blinks. 

“I’m sorry?”

“Shut up,” you repeat, “And step inside.”

Nyx’s heart blooms into a flurry of mixed emotions at the sound of your voice. It’s low, stoked like a fire, and crackling with anticipation. He turns his head, eying the hallway full of passing troopers. Then, he steps inside your quarters. 

You punch the door shut and promptly chuck the datapad, rather unceremoniously, over your shoulder. 

“General –”

“I love you.”

Nyx’s whole mouth goes dry. He coughs and stammers through a moment of confusion; beneath his helmet, his eyes are screwed shut at the sudden sideswipe the words have on his heart. But, he doesn’t have time to sit on it. Instead, your hands are finding the seems along his helmet and he’s fast to grip your wrists in gloved hands.

“Nyx.”

He knows where this is going. And as much as he wants it, it’s frozen him in fear.

“Don’t,” he says quietly, letting his thumb sweep the inside of your wrist, “Because I won’t… I can’t –”

_ Lose you. Hurt you. Be responsible for the terrible, awful end this may have. _

The words die as you move anyways, pulling the helmet from his head and letting it fall beside you. Your fingertips scale the scar along his jaw as you speak in a hushed whisper. 

“I dream about you every night.”

He signs his fate, then. The kiss burns – like the lick of a flame that’s been stoked for cycles. You cradle his face, rising up to meet him for a bruising kiss that sends you staggering backwards. Nyx’s hands find your waist, gloved hands winding themselves tight into the fabric of your chemise as he groans. You’re grinning, then, the whole way as he hauls you up into his arms and braces your back against the wall. 

It’s bliss. Absolute bliss. 

And suddenly, you don’t feel so caged anymore.


	9. morning after.

He will say, it turns out it is _quite_ hard to look at your General in the middle of debrief and _not_ think about certain things that had transpired the night before. 

Nyx, as he stands at attention, is watching you circle a holo-map of the battlements on Genosis – your eyes cast themselves over the strategic layout and the Commander of Talon Squadron takes a moment to admire you openly.

You’re incredibly beautiful, he thinks, as you eye the plans.

Your robes, a deep maroon color with stark white accents, flow behind you with each step. He notes the high collar you’re sporting. There’s a smirk on his face upon the realization of _why_ – 

“What do you think, Commander Nyx?”

He clears his throat. He’s been caught staring. Clearly.

“It might be best to ambush the enemy, General,” he offers, “Use the dunes for cover. Talon Squadron could loop around, disrupt the formation, then rejoin the main flank.”

You hum. The other Jedi, a twi’lek named Aayla Secura, spares a curious glance between the two of you before nodding. 

“Then so be it.”

The debrief breaks and you catch Nyx in the hall, elbow bumping his as he spares you a smirk beneath his helmet. You glance behind you, noting the absence of officers and troopers. 

“You’re distracting.”

Nyx snorts. “Me?”

“Yes, you.”

You’re smiling, though, as you say it. Nyx matches the expression. You can hear it in his voice. 

“Oops.”


	10. re-deployed.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> you and the boys are re-deployed on felucia.

“What the _hell_ is she doing?!”

It’s Spades, pausing his cover-fire to watch the General – who now has ignited the other end of her duel saber and broke into a sprint, war-cry bleeding into the battle as her squadron watches from the high ridge – who cries out in pure shock, head snapped to his Commander.

You’re _wiping_ the fungal field’s jungle floor with handful’s of droids at a time, hands clenched tightly as the force ripples through their ranks – like playthings, you pull a number apart in a flurry of sparks. Quickly, you’re cutting them down; swinging your saber and scaling a nearby B2 super battle droid. With one plant of your boot, you leap high into the air and hurtle yourself deeper into the Separatists’ front-line battalion. 

Nyx is just as shocked as the rest of the 111th platoon. Had it been any other time, had they _not_ been fighting hard on the line for the last 34 hours _straight,_ maybe he would have cited Spades for a punitive article like insubordination. But, in all fairness, the slack-jawed what-the- _fuck_ question was also sitting tightly on Nyx’s tongue as he hauls his DC-15 over his shoulder and swings the night vision scope to his eyes. 

_ What in the pit is she doing? _

The realization socks him in the gut nearly immediately.

“She’s carving out a path,” he breathes, jumping up and slamming his fist into the comms – he barks loudly, then, in a mild panic, “Delta company! Move down that ridge and _follow the General!_ She’s _making room!”_

Delta Company, then, goes dark on the other side of the Felucian hillside – it’s not until those heavy troopers have unhitched their Z-6 rotary canons and begin to light that valley up does Nyx holler at the rest of the companies to follow his _damn_ lead. 

It’s in moment’s like this that Nyx is _glad_ he’s not a complete stiff-neck. Without the amount of stims, some Republic Army issued and some not-so-much, coursing through his _fucking_ veins, he’s not sure he’d be able to keep up with the break-neck pace you set – but you’re _angry,_ and after _bitterly_ battling for the contested no-man’s-land at the bottom of the basin for days, you’d finally decided to take things into your own hands. 

The cover of nightfall makes everything look a bit more maze-like than it really is – the bioluminescence of the flora make the Commander’s head spin. 

Or, maybe it’s the handful of uppers he downed an hour ago per the direction of squad’s medic – Grim. Maybe it’s from the lack of sleep. Maybe both. He isn’t sure, but Nyx knows that he’s _well_ in the clear. During the mandated exposure training, he’d been kept awake for upwards of a week – sure, yea, he’d felt like he’d officially lost his _damn mind,_ but on all accounts he _survived_.

(Maybe not his aptitude scores – they’d taken a bit of a blow, but whatever. He still passed training. And they _still_ gave him his stripes.)

Just like he’ll survive this. 

Nyx catches up to you on the next ridge, hauling himself over the still smoking wreckages of more battle droids than he can keep count – his blaster is gripped tightly in his hands as you come into view, blocking and deflecting the automatic fire of a lone droideka like it’s as easy as breathing.

You are… _amazing_. 

You’re _fast_ and _focused_ and Nyx _knows_ the moment he calls your name that it’s a mistake – you turn for the _fraction of a second_ to spare him a smile and suddenly, a bolt drives straight across your left side and sends you hurtling to the ground.

Not good.

Bad.

Pain.

The world stops spinning for a second and you grip your ribs – the warm, stickiness of blood meets your touch and you collapse into the tall grass.

In the light of Felucia’s full moon, you see him, hauling his helmet off and skidding to his knees as blaster fire rains over head. He’s saying something but you can’t hear him – his lips are moving in the shape of your name. The droideka explodes, peppering debris around you and Nyx is fast to cover you – his hands are cradling your head as he digs in the pack strapped to his kama for a bacta patch. 

The last thing you hear, in a moment of clarity before you black out, is Nyx screaming for a medic. 

And then, everything goes black. 


	11. wounds.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> there's some medical gore in here. oops.

_ “GRIM!”  _

The panic in Nyx’s voice sends the medic’s head snapping around; formation long since forgotten, the medic breaks into a sprint towards the shattering sound without even considering the dangers of doing so – scaling the hillside, the skull-patterned trooper finds a gut-wrenching scene in the basin. 

“Shit.”

It’s the rest of the squad that tramples up the hill to stand beside him, breathless and terrified at the sight of the Commander clutching the limp body of their Jedi General. 

“Move!” Grim barks, shoving his way through and skidding to the bottom of the hill – he’s fast, throwing his pack down form his shoulder and discarding his helmet in the grass. 

You’re on your back, arms sprawled as Nyx scrambles to make room for the squad’s medic – Grim is tearing at a bacta patch with his teeth, his other hand scouring his pack for scissors. 

Scissors. 

Where the _kriff_ are his scissors?!

“ _SHADE!”_

The sniper, posed along the ridge and watching the quiet wetlands, calls out without pulling his eye from the scope. “Ay.”

“Scissors!” Grim’s cursing, gloved hands pressing along her robes as he finds the wound – the composite shell she wears along her ribs, painted to match Talon Squadron’s coloring, has shattered in one spot on her left side. The entry wound is smoking. Through gritted teeth Grim calls over his shoulder, “I need ‘em!”

Grim is good at hiding disgust. Worry, though, is one emotion he’s never been good at masking. It shows in the waver of his voice.

The fasteners of the cuirass come undone with a snap; Grim had hoped the plastoid composite would have absorbed most of the impact, but _fuck,_ there’s a a literal burn hole _deep_ along her ribs. Those blaster bolts are hot and the skin there has already begun to blister, wound beginning to weep blood now that’s it’s been exposed to the air, even though it’s been half cauterized from the immediate impact.

Nyx swallows down a sound of pain.

Shade wordlessly juggles his pack and rifle in his hands. He’s fast, procuring a pair and handing them off to Fennec – the lieutenant is quick to skid down the hill and pass the scissors to Grim; his night-vision visor is on and his duel pistols are trained in ready hands. Fennec is scanning the tree-line as he speaks. 

“We’re exposed here,” says Fennec tightly, eyes bouncing to Nyx who is cradling your head in his lap, “We’ve gotta move.”

“Not until I’ve patched this,” Grim snaps, “If we move her now she’s gonna bleed out and when her _lung_ collapses, that’ll be on you, alright, Fennec?”

Fennec’s mouth falls shut. He shifts on his boots. “… What do you need?”

“Bacta patches, health stims, anything. If you’ve got ‘em, hand ‘em over. She needs ‘em more than any a’ you sorry bastards do right now. Get 104th on the line. We need an med evac, _now.”_

Lucky’s the one who runs down the line, gathering any spares from the 111th now posed along the ridge, watching and waiting for the smallest of movement as the Fennec, Nyx, Grim and the General lay at the bottom of the basin. Exposed.

In a blink, Grim has made quick work of the robes along your ribs – the tatters of your robes lay around you, your black chest bandeau exposed to the night as Grim makes fast work of your wound with sulfa and bacta spray; Lucky presents an armful of patches that Grim quickly uses to stuff the wound. 

Your stir at that. Fair enough. Grim is sure if he pressed a bit harder, he’d be touching the bones of your ribs. 

One last patch, a large one, is drawn tight around your ribs and a heavy dose of stims is planted in your thigh before Grim eyes Nyx warily. 

“We gotta move her.”

It’s a terrible sight that the entire Battalion is subjected to, then – their General, lifeless and limp in the tatters of her regalia, being hauled up the ridge by four of her men illuminated only by head lamps and the moon above. The 111th has never been quieter, mournful eyes turned to the _horrible_ display of Commander Nyx scrambling to hold up her head as they ascend the ridge. It’s gut-wrenching. 

The 104th’s medical team arrives with a land-speeder and a stretcher, off-loading their very own Jedi General – Plo Koon – in place of yourself. 

“Fennec –”

“Go,” the trooper cuts off his Commander, “Go with her.”

Nyx just nods, posture weak. “You’re in command. General Plo Koon –”

“Enough, soldier,” he breathes with an air of respectful calm; his hand finds Nyx’s pauldron, “Mind your General. I will aid the men in setting up a perimeter. We’ve gained considerable ground thanks to her. I do not intend to lose it, nor let her actions be in vain. Now, go.”

“Yes, sir.”

Grim is silent the whole ride back to the command center – he’s busy checking her vitals; they’re _bad,_ if he’s being honest, but he figures his vitals would be pretty terrible is he’d just he’d been clocked point blank and had a hole in his chest burn to a crisp. 

Nyx is… worse for wear. The stim crash has started and he’s sick with guilt – if he’d kept his fuckin’ _mouth shut…_

But, you can’t change the past. 

You said that to him once – you were wrapped in his arms in a bed on a GAR transport, far away from Felucia’s surface. The light of the stars leaking in from the bay windows painted you all sorts of breathtaking among the sheets, and Nyx had kissed constellations along your shoulders as you spoke.

“You can’t change the past,” you whispered, “You didn’t know.”

“I was projecting.”

“I was letting you,” you laugh, “I wanted it, just as much as you did.”

The Force is odd. And she is, too – odd and kind and empathetic and able to read him like a book. She casts a net across his heart and lets her fingers dance along the ripples. She can _feel_ his emotions before he even registers them. Just like all those thoughts of want and need and love he’d been harboring for months, kept just for her. 

“I was hurting you.”

“The _Code_ I swore to live by was hurting me,” you breathe, lithe fingertips dipping into the dark tresses of his hair, “And I began to fear it, and fear is not the way of the Jedi.”

“But _forbidden romance_ is?”

“Love is,” you smiled at him, tweaking his nose, “And I love you.”

The transport rocks and he’s thrown back to reality.

He grips your hand tightly as you ride into the encampment and Grim pretends he doesn’t see a damn thing. 


	12. safe.

You wake up, submerged and confused.

You push yourself, bleary and sluggish, to the top of the bacta tank and weakly claw the respirator off your mouth in a wave of air bubbles. Beneath you, the machines hooked to your tank and to the IV nestled deep in your arm go off, filling your ears with a muffled _beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, beep –_

The humid air of the Felucia medical tent hits your face as you take a deep breath and cling to the side of the bacta tank, bathed in light blue light. 

You’re alive, but you barely feel like it.

It’s another four hours before the let you out of the tank – and even then, they’re pumping your IV with a tranquilizer and wheeling you back into the makeshift operating room, citing a need to finalize the stitching of the new flesh that had grown back in the tank. You’re thankful for the stims as you feel next to nothing but _exhaustion_ ; you don’t _dare_ look down at the bare expanse of your stomach, fearful of the injury that has everyone but the medical droids recoiling.

You wake up to the sight of a woven roof, the warm weight of hand in yours, and _sick_ with worry that is not your own.

You realize it’s no doubt the fault of the man beside your bed.

Nyx is asleep.

He’s leaned back in his chair, chin tucked down into his armor – his boots are outstretched, perched on the edge of your cot and one hand remains tucked across his chest, while the other… is in your hand. Clutching you. 

You inhale, shift, and wipe at the sleep in your eyes. 

The clone commander to your left startles awake then, legs falling and eyes shooting open – instantly, he’s worrying, both hands slipping to hold your arm. 

“Careful –”  


“I know,” you whisper hoarsely, “I know, Nyx, I’m okay.”  


His shoulders relax after a moment, honey brown eyes roaming your face for a single breath before you _swear_ his eyes well-up – the clone pushed his hand through his helmet hair before you can confirm, and nods as his voice shatters 

“I… I was _scared_.”  


“I’m sorry,” you mumble, squeezing his hand, “I’m okay, I am.”  


“Shh,” he coos, leaning to press a lingering kiss to your cheek, “Don’t apologize.”  


“You look like hell,” you say, “You’ve been worrying.”  


A small smile, tired and slow. “I couldn’t help it.”

You crack a smile, resting your head back against the pillow. You’re _sore_ – there’s a tight bandage around your middle, and underneath it you can feel the cooling prick of bacta. Grim must have been in recently, you reason. 

“Where are the others?”  


Nyx frowns. “Still on the line. We called the 104th for a medical evac – General Plo Koon took over for you. Last I heard, they secured the basin and have dug in for the night.”

“Plo’s a good leader,” you sigh, relieved it’s not someone you distrust, “Him and Wolffe will handle things.”  


“For now, focus on _rest,”_ Nyx urges, mouth pulled into a straight line as a gloved hand teases into your hairline and soothes the hairs down there, “Okay?”

“Is that an order?” you croak.  


Nyx snorts. “Yes, sir, it _is_.”

He kisses your brow and you begin to drift off to the brush of his thumb across your knuckles, over and over and over again.

You fall asleep, warm and safe.


	13. padawan.

Ru’kali Lof is a timid, quiet, ten year old youngling when you first lay eyes on her. 

You’re called back to Coruscant after a five day offensive on Umbara, pulling the 111th off the line for some much needed R&R and putting you right in the thick of meeting with the Council – and while you’d initially thought the meeting was to report the progress of the campaign, you couldn’t help but note the playful twinkle in Master Kenobi’s eye the whole while.

“There is one other reasons we’ve called you here, Jedi Knight.”

You have to say… you’re _surprised_ to see the wide-eyed, pink skinned Mirialan girl lead in by the gentle hand of Master Shaak-Ti. She nearly hides behind the train of the Grand Master’s robes. 

Her eyes are big and blue, and up her cheekbones crawls pale blue markings akin to her people’s culture. She’s fussing her lip, shifting in her boots, and looking awfully out of place when you offer her a warm smile.

“Meet Ru’kali,” Shaak-Ti says softly, “Ru, this is your new Master. She is going to guide you on the path to become a Jedi Knight.”  


Ru nods, listening, and steps forward.

Instantly, you sink to the ground – your robes swim around you as you do so, lightsaber clinking on your belt as you move to offer a hand; your smile is big, pride and hope mingling to radiate towards the girl.

… The fact they _trust you_ to train a youngling – well, it’s wonderful. The happiness running through your life force ripples around the room and Master Yoda hums contently at the way the young Padawan seems to notice it as well and _instantly_ relaxes. 

“Hello.”  


“Hello,” she says back, ducking her eyes to the ground.   


After a moment of quiet contemplation, she takes your hand and shakes it once. Solid. Sturdy. A promise of friendship in the eyes of a child.

“It’s wonderful to meet you, Ru.”

“You, too, Master.”  


_Master._ Wait until the boys get a load of this.


	14. grim meet ru.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> grim is the medic of talon squad. if you wanna learn more about him, visit the #talon squadron tag on my tumblr, @whirlybirbs.

“Hi.”

Grim recoils slightly, a minor look of disgust on his mouth, when Ru offers a pastel pink skinned hand forward – the medic pulls back, face screwing up as honey eyes bounce between the Padawan and the _giddy_ newly appointed Jedi Master.

This is seriously gonna complicate things. Taking a _child_ into battle? That seems… _morally ambiguous_ even for Jedi standard protocol.

“… They gave _you_ a kid?”

“Grim,” you snarl, “Be _nice.”_

The medic is suddenly pinned under the big baby blues of the Padawan – Ru’s standing there, blue brows screwed up tight as she tries to put together _why_ the clone wouldn’t shake her hand. The shy girl immediately withdraws and… well, Grim feels a little horrible.

Okay, more than a little.

Terrible. He feels _awful._

Oh, _god, her lip is quivering._

… Is she gonna cry?

Oh, please, no, no no no, don’t cry –

“Uh,” the medic bends down, pulling his helmet off his head and dropping it to the ground as he kneels – suddenly, her expression becomes less like the waterworks are brewing and more like she’s just made a new friend and… Oh _god,_ she’s _adorable,_ she’s the _cutest thing_ he has _ever_ seen and he is gonna _die, “_ Hi, kid.”

“You have tattoos,” she points to the ones that crawl up her own cheekbones and temples, “Like me?”

The General is beaming. That _wise_ grin – and Grim can’t help but crack a smile at that. The medic watches as the girl tucks a loose fly-away behind her ear and clasps her hands in front of her, watching him speak.

“Yeah, I guess so. We match, huh?”

Ru smiles, nods, and giggles – just quiet enough to melt Grim’s entire _fucking_ heart – and the medic knows that this kid is gonna be the death of the entire squadron. 


	15. nyx meet ru.

“And who,” the words are broken by a warm laugh, “is this?”

Nyx doesn’t know what he loves more – you, gentling guiding a young, bright-eyed youngling his way, or the aforementioned bright-eyed youngling’s toothy smile being shot right up at him.

Either way, the usually gruff and rugged clone commander melts at the sight of the child, who seems to stick to your side like glue. 

The commander kneels, without prompting, and tucks his helmet beneath his arm as he does so – his hair is a mess and the light of the training hall make his tattoos stand out as they crawl down his neck, retreating into his blacks. Nyx is the one who juts a hand out, formality forgone for a friendly attitude. 

“Hi.”

“Nyx,” you says sweetly, “This is Ru’kali. She… is my new Padawan.”

His face falls – but only to be replaced instantly with awe.

“A Padawan?”

Ru gives an eager nod. She reaches out and shakes the Commander’s hand as he laughs, smile turning to pin you straight in the heart with happiness. He’s proud of you, you can tell – it’s the glimmer in his eyes that says it. You know him well enough that words aren’t needed. 

“You can call me Ru.”

“Ru.” Nyx sounds it out, features set instantly in something fatherly and fond, “That’s a beautiful name for a beautiful girl, you know.”

Ru immediately grows flustered and drops her eyes, toeing the ground and laughing. “Thank you.”

“Ru,” you call softly, hand on her shoulder, “Why don’t you go see what the others are up to, yes? I’m sure Grim has told them all about you already.”

She obeys wordlessly, only giving Nyx a small wave before she turns the corner of the hallway and disappears towards the observation deck where half of the squad is watching the others run drills.

The Commander stands, cocking a hip and swatting at your arm. “When I asked about kids, I didn’t mean _now_ –”

“Shut up,” you croon, laughing and moving to slip into a tight hug. It radiates pride and love and affection and you giggle into Nyx’s neck as he spins you around.

“I’m proud of you,” he says finally, setting you down and planting a sturdy kiss on your head – there’s weight there, slowing his words down as he speaks them into the crown of your head. He watches you, then, smile like sunshine, “And, you got a cute one.”

“Yeah,” you sigh, laughing a little, “She’s _shy.”_

_“_ Very shy.”

“But, she’s warming up,” you pat his hand, taking it into your own and giving it a squeeze, “And you laid it on thick.”

An amused shrug. “I can’t help it. I _am_ gonna be her favorite, I’ve already made that my one goal in this life.”

“Oh my goodness.”


End file.
